Why now?
by Evalyn A
Summary: T-T. The Forgotten post-ep. Spoilers through Zero Hour. Trip and T'Pol finally have that conversation. Complete.
1. Default Chapter

"Why now?" by Evalyn A

Disclaimer: Not making a dime off of this, they belong to Paramount, they don't belong to me, although finally they're starting to act as if they did. 

Rating: T/T, Tucker POV. PG. May be archived, just let me know.

Spoilers: The Forgotten.

How the hell did this happen? 

The ship's in pieces, and every time we put something back together something else falls apart. So much damage. So many dead. Dammit, I haven't got time for this. 

I was towelling off after the quick shower I'd taken. Three days of grime was just too much to bear, and the water recycling systems were back on-line. I was thinking back on the day's events, and despite myself, I was reliving that conversation with T'Pol in the corridor. That was when it hit me.

It was like I'd been punched in the gut and couldn't get a breath. It was that feeling you have when you suddenly realize you've fallen for someone hard, and you know it's a piss-poor idea – maybe you've already got someone, or they have, or you know they just couldn't feel the way you do. 

I knew we weren't likely to cross that line again, she and I, the one we'd crossed in her quarters that night – she'd made that abundantly clear. And yet I couldn't stop the rush in my blood, I didn't even want to, my head spinning as I leaned against the wall of the shower, dripping wet. God, I needed her like I'd never needed anyone before.

I'd cried in front of her, yet I hadn't felt embarrassed or foolish. Instead I realized that I'd wanted her to hold me and make me feel like I was worth something to someone again. One of life's little jokes, I guess. If you'd told me any of this could happen that first day she stepped on Enterprise and gave me that supercilious Vulcan stare, I'd have laughed out loud … and yet, even then, there was something between us. Did she feel it too? Was that why we fought so much? Because we knew if we ever stopped fighting, then … this would happen.

I'd made my way to my bunk. My brain was buzzing from too much caffeine and way too little sleep, my muscles were aching from the abuse they'd taken. My stomach was in knots, and my throat was so tight I could hardly swallow. I stared at the ceiling and I knew I wasn't going to sleep anytime soon.

So here I am, after a few hours of restless tossing and turning, asking myself … why now, when I need my focus more than ever before, to try to improve that slim chance we've got to get out of this one alive?

I drag myself out of bed. I splash a bit of cold water on my face, and apply some toothpaste to the furry animal that seems to have taken up permanent residence in my mouth. The caffeine buzz hasn't worn off yet – must have had 8 or 9 cups of really bad coffee yesterday. Can't keep going like this. I'll take a nap this afternoon if I have to, or visit Phlox for some good old-fashioned knockout drops. No neuropressure, though, not a chance. 

I wend my way down the hall to the mess, past piles of debris and scattered repair teams. And guess who's there, sitting at our table. Is she waiting for me? I grab a cup of decaf and a bagel and head over, trying to keep it casual, knowing that if I don't sit with her it'll look odd.

"Mornin', T'Pol," I say cheerfully, taking a sip from my coffee and sitting down. 

"Good morning, commander," she replies. God, she looks tired, those blue rims around her eyes are getting worse. Almost as tired as me. And yet still she looks gorgeous … 

"Sleep well?" I ask, naïvely thinking insomnia to be a safe conversational gambit.

"Not particularly," she replies. "Vulcans are creatures of habit, and my routine has been anything but normal these last few days. I was, in fact, hoping we could share a neuropressure session this evening. It would return us to some routine and probably help us both sleep."

Damn! It's supposed to be her offering to give me a session, which I could make some sort of excuse to get out of; she isn't supposed to be asking me for help too. How do I say no to that?

"I don't know if I'd be much help, T'Pol, I'm pretty useless at the moment and you know I'm not that good at it really," I mumble incoherently around a bite of bagel.

She raises her eyebrows to me. "Commander, I have never known you to be modest before. I have found your skills to be more than adequate under my supervision."

Damn again! I feel my colour rising. Surely she didn't realize the double entendre she'd just made. And yet she's looking over her cup at me with a sidelong glance that says she knows exactly what she's said, and what I'll be thinking.

My ears buzz and my mouth goes dry. My heart starts to race, and I can't take my eyes off her. "T'Pol," I find myself saying, "If I go to your quarters tonight I don't know if I'll be able to stop at neuropressure."

"Indeed," she replies, her eyes skittering away. "Well, perhaps you will change your mind about that … I have much to tell you. Regardless …" she stands up and drains her cup of tea, "… we had better allow extra time. I will see you there at 1900." And she walks out of the mess with that smooth, controlled walk she has, that reminds me of a tiger stalking its prey.

Much to tell me? I watch her go, my cup halfway to my mouth, my brain going around in circles. We've got two days till we reach the subspace corridor – maybe if we're lucky two days with no hostile aliens, no emergency staff meetings. And on the other side of that corridor a good chance of an early death. 

I know it's selfish, and senseless, and probably unwise. But I also know that I'm going to spend every last second that I can safely squeeze out over the next two days, trying to get closer to this fabulously infuriating, breathtaking, vital woman who's reached my soul like no other woman ever has. 

Because I fear they'll be the last seconds we get. 

…. End


	2. Chapter 2

"Why now?" by Evalyn A

Part 2

Disclaimer: Not making a dime off of this, they belong to Paramount, they don't belong to me, although finally they're starting to act as if they did.

Rating: T/T, T'Pol POV. PG. May be archived, just let me know.

Spoilers: The Forgotten.

The day has been stressful – if I were human I might describe it as frantic. Every system on Enterprise is on the verge of failing, requiring constant attention in order to assure that some significant fraction of ship's functions were operational at any given moment. Within the last two hours alone, I have performed diagnostics on virtually every sensor system and purged the memory subsystems, while attempting to determine which of the long-range scans were reliable. In background, my mind has been updating our estimated odds of survival at regular intervals based on ship's status. They are still not favourable.

As I modify the scanning routines to filter the noise from the long-range zeta scans, I glance at the chronometer. It is 1845. I feel an uncomfortable sensation in my throat, one with which I have become overly familiar over recent days.

I recall a conversation I once had with Commander Tucker while searching the corridors of an apparently abandoned vessel. "Vulcans do not feel fear," I had said. It was a prevarication, of course. Vulcans feel many things to which we do not admit. It is true that Vulcans generally do not fear ghosts, or arachnids, or high places. Nor do we fear grand acts of nature, or even statistical incidents of random mischance over which we have no control.

But that does not mean we have no fears. No, above all, we fear ourselves, and those dear to us, for nothing is more dangerous to our ordered world than we are ourselves.

And over the last few weeks, I have felt fear more times than I can count. I feel it again now, fear of what he will say when I tell him, if I tell him. No, perhaps I should continue down the path of least resistance, keeping my feelings and my fears to myself – allowing more time for the evolution of this relationship (I can no longer deny it to myself, although I continue to deny it to him).

But what if there was no more time? Should I die never having been truly honest with him, or, for that matter, with myself?

In only a few minutes he will be at my quarters. It would be ill-mannered to keep him waiting. However, I could contact him and plead an excess of work. I suspect that he might be relieved, judging from his comments at breakfast this morning. I am sure he is as uncomfortable as I with the twists and turns that we have been navigating, as well as being more than slightly perplexed by my unpredictable behaviour of late – and I could hardly blame him.

I have completed the modifications while attempting to rationalize that which is entirely irrational, and now have no excuse. I walk in a purposeful manner down the corridor. I almost convince myself that I am simply proceeding in a logical manner towards an appointment with a close colleague, one that will conclude a satisfactory neuropressure session with a sound night's sleep.

He is standing at my door, dressed in the tight white shirt and loose grey pants that I have grown to associate, to my discomfort, with a great deal of intimate contact with him. "I thought maybe you'd decided you were too busy," he said neutrally. I infer that he too is uncertain whether he is disappointed or relieved that I have, in fact, kept our appointment. I enter the room and turn to face him.

"Please prepare yourself, I will need to change my clothes," I say to him. I turn to my locker and remove the light sleepwear that I normally wear for our sessions, and start to change. I am still entirely undecided how I wish to proceed this evening, and I turn over in my mind the many ways in which I could broach the subject about which I wish to speak. When I have completed changing, I turn to find him ostentatiously faced in the other direction, and I feel a fleeting moment of exasperation.

"It is not necessary for you to turn away, Mr. Tucker, you have seen me unclothed before," I point out.

He turns back, and then replies dryly as he kneels down, "And that's why it's better if I don't see it again without being officially invited."

I cannot help but feel a little further exasperation that he is capable of such restraint, atypical as I understand it to be for a human male. "As you wish," I reply. "The ka'vorta posture first, I think."

We continue for a few minutes without any extraneous conversation, following through a series of postures. My exasperation and a considerable amount of my tension begin to drain away as his fingers knead below my third vertebra. Then they slide lower, and I become aware that this is definitely not the next position in the sequence. "Mr. Tucker?" I murmur, unable to summon up any significant resistance to this deviation from form.

"Cool your jets," he replies gently, "I'm just givin' you an old-fashioned back rub without the neurobabble thrown in." I cannot deny that it feels exquisite, both because of the way my muscles are responding, and because of the gentle, intimate way that his hands are moving over me, so much less predictable than neuropressure. They move further towards my lower back and I try to keep my breathing slow and even, but it is becoming more difficult by the moment.

The intercom beside my door chimes. "_Archer to T'Pol_".

Mr. Tucker drops his hands instantly, and I savagely wonder to myself – why now? as I pull my top up quickly and climb up to answer it. "T'Pol here," I say, conscious that my voice is not entirely normal.

"T'Pol, I need you to go over the data with Malcolm on the subspace corridor that we collected during the attack a few weeks ago; he's concerned about the effect on weapons function and needs your input. We're in the armoury." I take a steadying breath and reply.

"I will be there shortly." I turn to see Trip pulling on his shirt and heading for the door. "This may not take long," I say, knowing that it is in fact unlikely that I will be back any time soon. He stops and looks at me thoughtfully.

"I think this just wasn't a good idea tonight, T'Pol," he replies. "Too many distractions, and we need to be focussed right now." He pauses, and then gently, briefly, touches my cheek. "See ya later," he says as he slips out the door.

I put my hand up to my cheek where his fingers had brushed. My anger at the situation we find ourselves in threatens to escape, and I punch it down mercilessly as I proceed towards the armoury. Yet again the chance has slipped away from me. Will there be another?

To be continued …


	3. Chapter 3

"Why now?" by Evalyn A

Part 3

Disclaimer: Not making a dime off of this, they belong to Paramount, they don't belong to me, although finally they're starting to act as if they did.

Rating: T/T, Tucker POV. PG. May be archived, just let me know.

Spoilers: E2 through Zero Hour.

She's done it to me again, I fume as I storm toward engineering. Just when I thought we were starting to connect, she brushes me off. For God's sake, we were married! And had a kid! That's got to mean something to her. Why can't she just talk about it instead of pretending there's nothing there … I slow down as I reach the next corner and pull to a halt opposite a team working on a junction box. Liang stops her work to look at me expectantly and I wave her off distractedly.

I sigh to myself. You're an ass, Tucker, I tell myself and I turn back towards auxiliary control. As I enter, I note she is stabbing at her PADD with an unnecessary degree of force.

"T'Pol," I say, "I'm sorry. I was out of line." She stares at me expressionlessly for a moment, and then her expression softens.

"I too am sorry," she replies. "Your reaction to the situation was entirely normal. For you," she adds quickly, in case I misunderstand her thoughts. "I too am – disoriented – by recent events. Let us not speak of it again. Perhaps you could help me with the realignment of the secondary sensor grid? I believe the base emitters need tuning."

I head around the back side of the panel and we pick up where we left off on the modifications that will allow us, hopefully, to traverse the subspace corridor safely. I don't know what's got her so edgy, but I guess I'm going to have to learn to walk on eggshells in bare feet and enjoy it. Because I'm damned if I'm going to keep running out on her the way that I've been doing lately. And sooner or later she'll talk to me, if I just stop pushing so hard.

...........

The angry words leave my lips and I head out the door. Then I hear, "Commander … Trip!"

Hell, here I am running out again, after I'd promised myself I wouldn't. And this time it was her making the first move. I turn back and the expression on her face wrenches at my heart.

She's hurting, I can tell. What's gone so badly wrong for her, that she's letting me see every feeling so easily? I can't believe it's just the mission, for even had she not been Vulcan the events on Earth would surely have had less impact on her than on the rest of us. No, there's something else, and it's tearing her up.

And I realize it's tearing me up too. So I'm going to have to be there for her this time. She needs me propping her up, not looking for chinks in her armour. So, I decide resolutely, I'll be her friend, and we'll see where it goes.

She tacitly accepts my offer of someone to talk to, and even responds to my little joke with a shadow of her former spirit. Who knows, maybe when all this is over, I'm going to have to start learning some Vulcan after all.

............

I feel a little flutter in my stomach. "I can't believe you told me that. Why now?" I ask, trying hard to keep a silly smile off my face.

She does not seem to understand my question. "You said I looked old!" She sounds positively indignant. Damn she's cute, acting like a sixteen year old.

"That's not what I meant," I continue. "I've been trying to get you to tell me your age every since we left spacedock three years ago."

She looks decidedly uncomfortable, and replies, "Vulcans consider some information to be intimate."

I feel like I've been hit by a ton of bricks. "Intimate, huh?" I say stupidly. She just said it Tucker, she said we were intimate. No, hold on, fella, friends, she needs you to be her friend. Forget the intimate, think beer and football games …

And then again with the damned intercom. But this time it's the return of our team from the weapon, and all other thoughts leave me as we rush to the docking port.

It is 0300 and I am staring at the ceiling in my quarters, the knot in my throat persistent and painful.

Earth is safe. No more will die, not like Lizzie. Some part of me has registered this information and is relieved beyond measure. And yet, being human, I cannot be grateful for the large gift we have been given, I can only think of the tragedy that overlies it – he's gone, my best friend is gone. My throat tightens even further at the thought of it. I'd known him for years, years in which we had been nearly inseparable a good portion of the time. Just about every Friday night out together, and often more, even when we had lovers we should have been spending the time with – hell, maybe that closeness was one of the reasons neither one of us had never managed a good long-term relationship of the home and hearth kind.

And yet we'd had so little time together, Jon and I, the last few months. I don't know if we'd grown apart or if it had simply been the stress of the mission. Of course, our relationship had been strained since before that, really … since the cogenitor's death, in all likelihood. But it had seemed better for a while after that, so I suppose the never-ending problems in the expanse, my reaction to Lizzie's death, his responsibility for the mission, all had had their effect in driving us apart.

And yet he was still closer to me than anyone. Closer than my parents, my siblings, anyone on board Enterprise. Or is that true? I find myself wondering. How would I feel now if it had been T'Pol who had not returned from that last mission, and not Jon?

I would be sitting with Jon, in all likelihood, remembering her over a drink of bourbon; that tradition for tragedy in our lives would have survived even the Expanse. I couldn't do that with T'Pol. There was no comparison. Was there?

After more minutes of fruitlessly trying to get to sleep, I roll out of bed. After hesitating in front of my locker, I open the door and pull out a container. I stare at the contents for a moment, tuck it under my arm and head out.

She answers her door rapidly enough that I know she hasn't been sleeping either. She is still fully dressed. The rims of her eyes are blue. She indicates that I may enter.

I feel awkward, and yet, it feels right. I pull the bottle of bourbon out from under my arm and show it to her.

She stares at it for a moment, and then turns to her cupboard and pulls out two small Vulcan teacups. I pour the bourbon into them, and we sit ourselves cross-legged on the floor on either side of her low table.

"To Jonathan Archer," I say, "the best Captain and friend I ever had, and the man who gave up his life to save all our worlds." She nods, and we both drink, me downing the tiny cupful in one gulp and T'Pol taking a small sip with a dubious but determined look on her face.

I top up my cup and take another sip, the bourbon loosening the knot in my throat just a shade. She is watching me with poorly hidden concern.

"It's all right, T'Pol, I'm not going to pieces, not just now anyway," I reassure her, my voice a bit unsteady. "But I really needed a friendly face right now."

"I am honoured that you chose me," she replies, gently. "I too am glad of the company. I am also glad that you have given me the opportunity to grieve for him in such an appropriate way." She holds the teacup up for study momentarily and then takes another sip. "Though the taste is not particularly pleasant, it is evocative."

I stare at my cup and then, unable to sit still, stand up and stride to the window. I feel a tide of anger rising in me. "Why now, T'Pol? It was almost over, and then he has to go and die on us. It's just not fair. It shouldn't have been like that."

She remains silent for a moment. The old T'Pol would have responded with logic to the irrationality of my grief, explaining to me the value of the sacrifice he gave, or the illogic of expecting justice from a universe governed by the second law of thermodynamics.

But she has developed a new sensitivity that surprises me in its sincerity. "I will miss him too," she replies, simply, moving to stand behind me. She places her hand on my shoulder. I turn to face her, aware that I had been a liar earlier – I was going to pieces, I realize, as the tears stream down my cheeks. She pulls me into a tight embrace, and I cry, my tears soaking her hair. After a time, I realize that the front of my shirt is wet as well.

I pull back slightly and wipe her cheek with my fingers. "It's not good for you to cry," I say, a bit worried. "Is it?"

"Not normally," she replies, not looking at me. "But it would appear these are far from normal times."

"About that," I say uncertainly. "You had something you wanted to talk to me about. Is now a good time?"

She steps out of my arms and turns away, wrapping her arms around herself. I can sense her pulling away from me mentally as well, and I put out my hand to her and turn her back around.

"No you don't," I chide her. "Not again. You don't have to talk if you don't want to, but you're not going to shut me out."

I can see her fighting herself, and then, suddenly, she seems to surrender and allows me to pull her back into my arms. I hold her, my hand smoothing her hair where it is damp from my tears.

"If I were to tell you, I am afraid you would not wish to remain my – friend," she murmurs into my chest after a moment.

"Is it that bad?" I ask her, feeling that lump in my throat returning.

"Perhaps," she replies. "I do not know. If I were to tell another Vulcan the whole of my story, I would return to Vulcan a pariah, if at all."

I pull back, my hands on her shoulders, steeling myself. "Did you kill someone? Betray someone?"

"No, not directly. But my actions most certainly have endangered this mission, which could have led to the destruction of your planet, and mine. I have been selfish, and irresponsible. Once we have returned to Earth, I do not know what I will do," she concludes, unable to return my gaze.

I take a deep breath. "Okay, maybe we better sit down for this." We once again take our seats at her table. "T'Pol, I can't promise you what I'll feel after you've told me this, whatever it is. It doesn't sound good, I'll give you that. But I refuse to believe that you're the criminal you're making yourself out to be. And along with all our shortcomings, we humans have to be able to summon up a healthy dose of forgiveness regularly, or we'd all have stopped speaking to each other a long time ago."

She stares silently into her teacup once again, and then, steadying herself, she begins. She starts from surprisingly far back –from the encounter two years ago with the V'tosh ka'tur, the Pa'nar syndrome and all the consequences, including her resulting self-imposed isolation from Vulcan. Then the assault by Rajiin that had further damaged her neural pathways.

At this point I interrupt. "Hell, T'Pol, were you keeping this all to yourself? Were you talking to Phlox at least?"

"Dr. Phlox was aware of most of the ramifications of these events, as was the Captain to some extent," she replied, still not looking at me.

"I didn't mean that, I meant did you have someone to _talk_ to?" I say impatiently.

"Vulcans do not talk about such things," she explains, finally looking me in the eye. "We meditate and look for answers in the teachings of Surak."

"Bullshit," I grumble. She gives me a look of reprimand. "Sorry, go on, I interrupted."

She inclines her head and continues, her eyes skittering away again. "The neural damage Rajiin caused was in fact less important, I think, than how she caused it." She paused, seemingly searching for words.

"Go on," I prompt her, after a moment.

She looks back at me, an expression in her eyes that I would have almost described as beseeching. "She was attempting to break down my mental barriers, to read more of my mind, much like Tolaris had. It was the fact that I was able to resist her that caused much of the damage. Once she realized that she could not breach those barriers directly, she attempted to circumvent them." She pauses, and I note her hand is decidedly unsteady as she takes another sip of bourbon. "She did so by attempting to stimulate some of my … baser instincts, to cause me to lose control."

I feel uncomfortable for her, for she is clearly embarrassed. "We've all got them, T'Pol, and if we're human, we've all given in to them at times."

"Vulcans do not," she reminds me stiffly. "We cannot. But I did. She made me feel pleasure, intense pleasure. It is not normal for a Vulcan," she concludes. "Perhaps if subsequent events had not proceeded as they had …"

It is getting more difficult every moment for me to maintain my role of sympathetic observer as her tale unfolds, but I control myself. "There's more than that."

"Indeed," she continues. "Our next encounter shortly after was with the _Seleya_."

I nod. I am beginning to see, vaguely, where this is going. "And you were exposed to the trellium."

"I was. It was … devastating. I lost all control, I was angry, irrational, lustful, paranoid. As the effects wore off, and my control began to return, I seriously considered taking my own life," she states, quite matter-of-factly in comparison to her previous tone.

I stare at her, my stomach plummeting. "My god, T'Pol, tell me you tried to get help from someone then!"

"I had not yet reached the depths of my folly," she explains, dryly. "Allow me to continue." I nod dumbly, chastised and shaken.

"As the effects of the trellium wore off, over a period of days, I found myself dreaming. Vulcans do not normally dream," she explains to me, "for the function of dreaming in humans is filled by our meditative state as long as we perform it regularly. My dreams were strange, disturbing, often frightening. And yet they enticed me, drew me in. You were in many of them," and now she is looking at me again beseechingly, seemingly looking for my forgiveness now, "and you played many roles … friend, adversary, co-worker … lover," she concludes.

I nod once more, finding myself thrilled by this revelation but desperate not to interrupt her again. She looks at me, now, despite her obvious pain, faintly amused. "You may interrupt if you need to," she says gently, "for you are clearly now part of the story."

Hesitantly, I ask, "Why me?"

She interlocks her fingers on the tabletop, staring at them for a moment. "How can I say. But I have felt a connection with you from our first encounters. I cannot tell you exactly what series of events triggered those feelings, but Rajiin had released them, and the trellium had made them nearly uncontrollable. As the trellium wore off further, the dreams began to subside and I was left with little but feelings of frustration and desperation. What little self-respect I had at that point, I believe I sacrificed with my next actions."

I can only stare at her, simultaneously ecstatic, appalled, and mesmerized by her story.

"One night, I went to the cargo bay where the captain had ordered the trellium locked away for my safety. And I removed some from the container and returned with it to my quarters."

I am shocked out of my silence. "You could have killed yourself with that!" I say indignantly.

"Of course," she replies. "At that point, I believe that I considered that to be an acceptable outcome."

I rub my hand over my face, and finish the last of my second teacup of bourbon. Despite my desperate wish at this point to pour myself another, it seems quite inappropriate given the current turn of the conversation, so I sit on my hand while she continues.

"I had obtained a vapour-tight container within which the small amount of trellium I had removed could be maintained safely. The first time, I simply removed a microscopic portion and inhaled it. The initial feelings were once again devastating, I nearly broke the monitor in my anger," she indicates her desk vaguely with one hand. "But the dose had been minute, and the effects wore off much more quickly this time. And when I retired, I dreamed again." She swallows uncertainly. "There was no going back. I developed a formulation for injection that removed most of the initial effects and allowed the residual to last somewhat longer."

I sit there silently, reliving our last weeks in the expanse, evaluating this new knowledge. It explained a great deal, the yo-yo nature of her responses to me, her advances and her retreats. Finally, I ask, "But you've stopped?"

"After we took the heavy damage in the Xindi attack and the captain had disappeared. You may recall the cargo bay containing the trellium was heavily damaged. I had used up all of the trellium in my quarters, and I instructed the repair teams to make access to that cargo bay a priority. That was the first warning sign to me that my … addiction … to the trellium was becoming dangerous to the mission and not just to me. And yet I continued. Eventually, I went to the cargo bay myself to obtain some more. I nearly killed myself in the process." I stare at her, horrified. I know now where this is going. "Afterward, I was appalled at my actions."

I interrupt her. "When I stopped you at the shuttlepod, you weren't going to try to reason with the Xindi, you were trying to kill yourself."

She looks at me apologetically. "I was most displeased with you for attempting to stop me," she says, another faint sign of humour in her expression.

"Damn T'Pol, you are an idiot!" I fume. "Tell me you went to Phlox then."

She nods. "I did. I explained the latter part of my actions to him. I do not know how much of my reasons, or at least my excuses, for my behaviour he has inferred. But he has been very helpful. I have had no trellium since that time. The need to use it appears to have disappeared."

I look at her, confused. "But you're not back to normal," I say. "You're still just as …" I search for a tactful word, "… unpredictable as ever."

A rueful expression flits over her face briefly. "I said that the need to use it had disappeared. That is because its effects have now become permanent as a result of the damage caused to my neural pathways from prolonged use. I am now as expressively emotional as any human, and judging from my conversation with my elder self, I am unlikely to recover significantly."

"And how about that need to kill yourself, has that gone away too?" I ask, afraid to hear the answer, my thoughts still churning over what she has told me.

"It appears so," she replies. "I have achieved a certain degree of equanimity regarding my condition over the last few days. I cannot guarantee, however, that it will remain."

I look at her, some of the anxiety alleviating, and being replaced by a profound irritation. "Goddamned stupid," I comment.

"I can only agree with you," she replies, attempting to appear in control despite the momentary flash of something that passes over her face.

"Soul-destroyingly, idiotically, catastrophically stupid!" I repeat angrily, once again pushing myself away from the table and striding over to the window, this time slapping it in my frustration. I turn back to face her. "You should have come to someone – Phlox, me, the Captain, Chef, for God's sake," I explode. "Goddamn, I am so sick of Vulcan superiority, thinking you can handle everything and don't need our help. It should never have gotten that far," I conclude, my anger evaporating as quickly as it had come. "You could have died, T'Pol. You could have died."

"You are not angry that I have endangered the mission?" she enquires, clearly somewhat thrown by the tenor of my diatribe.

"Of course I'm angry," I state, rolling my eyes, "you were a damned idiot, didn't I just say that? You could have gotten us all killed because you were too proud to ask for help. And I'm betting," I add shrewdly, "that Surak never said you had to do it all on your own, either."

She looks taken aback by my argument, and after a brief moment replies, "No, probably he does not. Just like many of your great philosophical and religious works, Surak's teachings are open to many interpretations. I suppose we tend to emphasize those that suit us and ignore those that do not, just as humans do. I have always been independent, and unwilling to admit my errors."

"But you're admitting them now," I point out.

"My time spent on Enterprise," she pauses, and appears somewhat surprised as she continues, "has perhaps, in the end, added somewhat to my level of maturity, albeit via a rather unpleasant path. I am still quite young," she notes apologetically. "You mentioned forgiveness, earlier," she continues, somewhat uncertainly.

I step over to the table and sit down again. I take both of her hands in mine, and examine them while I formulate my reply. Finally I look up at her. "It's not my forgiveness you need, T'Pol. It's your own."

She looks pained for a moment. "Then you do not forgive me."

I laugh in spite of myself. "There we go again, with those goddamn cultural barriers. Let me make myself clear, T'Pol. I forgive you. I forgive you for being young, and foolish, and weak, and stubborn as a mule. I forgive your poor judgement, both in command choices and apparently in who you find attractive. And I admire you for being one of the strongest people I have ever met, for coming through what you did in one piece, and for returning to Earth in command of the finest vessel in Starfleet, having assisted in saving our planet, and more than likely all of the species in this sector, from obliteration, despite having experienced enough trauma to have knocked any one of the finest in Starfleet out of their gourd." I take a long breath, and I add, "And I love you, because, or in spite of, all of it." I sit back and fold my arms over my chest. "So sue me."

The expression on her face is comical. "Why would I attempt to extort payment from you when you have just expressed feelings for me, which although I admit I return, I surely do not deserve?" she concludes indignantly.

I grin back at her. "Well, that's the most peculiar expression of undying affection I've ever heard, but I guess I'll take it." Reluctantly, for I have every desire to take this conversation to its logical conclusion, I stand up. I will still need to be the logical, reliable one in this relationship for the next while, I suspect. "Listen, T'Pol my darlin', I would love to stay. But we'll be at Earth in a few hours, and this conversation seems to have achieved the desired effect in taking our minds off of the captain for a while. So I think we'd both better focus on looking rested and presentable for the grand homecoming, and pick this up again once all the hoopla is over."

She stands also. "You are both wise and sensible," she agrees, and then continues ruefully, "Although I might wish that you did not pick tonight to behave in such an uncharacteristic manner."

I grin again, and lean forward to give her a soft kiss on those delectable lips. "We'll have lots of time, let's just take it slow, okay?"

She nods, and holds up two fingers to me in a gesture that clearly calls for reciprocation. I comply, touching her fingers with mine. "What does that mean?" I ask, gently, feeling as though I have just been given a very precious gift.

"It means," she replies, slowly, uncertainly, "that I wish to remember this moment when we are back on Earth and you are once again surrounded by your friends and family. For I very much fear that you will see things differently then."

Appalled, I turn her chin up to me with one finger. "Don't ever think that, my darling," I reply, my voice rough. "You are it for me. Do you trust me?" I wait for her reply, holding her gaze.

Finally, after searching my eyes for a long moment, she relaxes. "I trust you," she murmurs softly. "Good night, thy'la."

"G'night," I reply reluctantly, and tear myself away. I take one last look at her as the door closes behind me, trying to burn each detail into my brain as she stands there watching me. Then I turn to stride down the corridor towards the lift, my mood radically altered from that of an hour ago when I had entered her quarters. I had lost a dear friend, but T'Pol had given me as much and more in replacement tonight. I think Jon would have approved.

The End.


End file.
